Rolling down the residential road,
back from Asda with a heavy load.
Winding and whipping round the tight bends,
traffic finally passed, almost home, the ends.
Warmth coughing out of the stale heaters,
an invisible blanket in your five seater.
6pm, darkness all around,
you see the 114 bus making his rounds.
Halogen lights smothering your view,
usually stress would start to brew.
Slow down, up and over,
these speed bumps would normally make you hover.
This time we’re wasting time,
gently flowing, this is fine.
At home there’s still more work to be done,
maybe, just maybe, a little bit of fun.
Up and down, go and stop,
you follow the line and hear a pop.
More like a bang—
brake, handbrake, window down, out you hang.
Definitely a flat,
guess it’s time to handle that.
Yet another moment for rage to rise,
for the burning to build, right behind your eyes.
No point, no matter,
you empty your boot with a clatter.
The winter air is biting,
inner voice still calm, accepting.
When out of nowhere, a voice – gentle, unplanned
Breaking the icy silence, “Need a hand?”
Any lingering strain, made to fade,
with a warm radiating hand outstretched in aid.